by Randy Rawls
When I stepped through my door, Sweeper came sailing toward me. I stepped back and plucked him from the air. This was a scene we’d enacted many times. I pretended to break into my house, and Sweeper attacked me as I came through the door.
Striker took the more conventional route. I scooped him up and held him against Sweeper as both of them spun their purr control knobs to the highest setting. I was home.
“Glad to see you guys, too,” I said. “After I refill your food dishes and clean your litter pans, we’ll relax and I’ll bring you up to date.”
Thirty minutes later, I dropped into the recliner, placing the boys in my lap. Striker curled up while Sweeper took his customary Sphinx position on the arm of the chair. They gazed at me. Scratching their ears, I filled them in on the last couple of days.
When I confessed Joseph was a burro, they both gave me looks that questioned my intelligence.
“Hey, how was I to know? It’s putting chow in your dishes, so don’t be so darn uppity about it.”
That ended my welcome home. They jumped down and headed for their food.
I spent the next hour packing for two weeks on the road. For the boys, a simple task—pet carriers, food and water dishes, and litter boxes. My packing wasn’t much more complicated—four pairs of jeans, four casual shirts, one pair of dress slacks, one dress shirt, a pair of athletic shoes and my best boots. One hat would suffice, and I’d wear that along with an older pair of boots I could walk the pastures in. I didn’t plan to polish my kangaroo hide boots with cow patties again.
The tough part was taking the boys out of the suitcase—several times. I took a last look around the bedroom, then walked out knowing I could face the world dressed for any occasion.
After half an hour encouraging the boys to enter their carriers, I was ready to go. Oh, translate that last to chasing them around the house, catching them, and shoving them into the carriers. By one o’clock, I drove toward Canton, top down of course. I skipped the workout. I soothed my conscience by telling myself I’d get plenty of exercise chasing Joseph’s kidnapper.
Zipping along I-20, at seventy-four miles an hour with everyone swishing by, my cell phone chirped. “Hello, Ace Edwards here,” I said, pulling onto the shoulder and stopping.
“Arty, you need to hurry back. Another call from the kidnappers. They’re ready to kill Joseph if I don’t come through with the cash.”
I pondered a moment, wondering how he’d gotten through college. Then I remembered, football scholarship. “Chip. Listen to me. Joseph is with the sheriff. Did you tell them that? And don’t call me Arty.”
Silence from Chip until a weak-sounding voice said, “Oh darn, I forgot. What do we do?”
Have you ever considered what it is that helps rich guys stay that way? With some, it’s not an overwhelming preponderance of gray matter. I wondered if Chip fell into that category.
“I’m headed for your place,” I said. “What did they say?”
“Same as before. They have Joseph. They want ten thousand dollars. If I don’t pay, they’ll kill him. They’ll be in touch again.”
“Ah, Chip? Does that sound strange to you? Concentrate. Was it a man or a woman?”
Silence. Then, “Well, yeah, it does. A man.”
“Have you heard the voice before?”
“Sure, the guy called before.”
“No, Chip,” I said, counting to ten. “Other than that time, have you heard it before?”
“Now that you ask,” Chip replied, “it might have had a familiar ring to it. Yeah, I think I heard it before. But I can’t place it. He had kind of a local accent, but also something mixed in with it, and he didn’t use very good grammar. He—”
“Great.” I had to say something to get him back on track. “Could it be somebody in Canton, somebody who worked for you, somebody who…” I trailed off, not knowing what else to say.
“Yeah, I bet that’s it—somebody who worked here. Somebody who knew Joseph. I’ll tell my accountant to check the records.” I could almost hear the grin on his face, or, at least the relieved tone in his voice. “Damn, you’re as good as Jake said. Hurry, the fishing hut is ready for you and your cats.”
I clicked off and smiled. “Boys, you’re not going to believe this guy.” I pulled onto the road and merged into traffic. Sweeper and Striker mewed their impatience. We arrived at Chip’s without further incident.
As usual, Frank was Johnny-on-the-spot, uh, Frank-on-the-spot, and met me as soon as the car stopped rolling. “Your accommodations are all prepared, sir. Shall I take your companions to the cottage?”
I looked at the boys who looked at me. I’m not sure I’d seen such expressions on their faces before, even when I took them to the Cat Hotel and the concierge greeted them. I said, “Yeah, he’s for real. But he’ll take good care of you.” Their heads turned, and they studied Frank.
“Mr. Jamison is most anxious to consult with you. He’s in the Texas Room.”
He ushered me out of the car and took my place behind the wheel. The last I saw of the boys were their faces filled with anticipation of a new adventure.
As I stood watching, worrying like any father, Annie appeared at my elbow. “You are keeping Mr. Jamison waiting.”
The way she said it caused my conscience to remonstrate because of my procrastination. I found myself thinking, You’re a cad, Ace Edwards. How dare you keep Chip waiting? Fortunately, the common sense side of my intellect kicked in before I genuflected before the CTC brand. “Miss Annie, I shall follow you in genuine humility.”
She gave me one of those looks. You know, the kind women use to denude the male gender. She executed a determined about-face and marched up the front steps, through the house, and into the Texas Room.
As I entered, a few steps behind her, she said, “Mr. Edwards has finally arrived.” The way she said it left no doubt she thought I’d been off carousing with the frivolous and infamous instead of taking care of Chip’s business. “Frank has taken his felines to the cottage for a mid-afternoon snack.”
My chin bounced off chest at her last announcement. She ignored my perplexity and flounced through the doorway into the house. Yes, flounced. I know flounced when I see it. She flounced—and did it well.
Chip’s guffaw broke my study of Annie’s departure.
“What the hell are you laughing at?”
“Boy, you’re in trouble. You can do about anything you want on this ranch except piss Annie off. And you did that. She’s pissed.” Chip lapsed into uncontrollable laughter again. “Better you than me.”
“Yeah, but what did I do?”
“Don’t have to do nothing specific. She gets in a mood, she puts you in the barrel.”
“Well shit, let her think what she wants.” I paced for a moment, trying to get things in perspective, then dropped into a chair. “Anything happen since we talked?”
Chip sighed, took a long slug on his beer, then pulled on the servant’s cord. “Yeah, I got another call from Bob. He says the lawyer is still snooping around. The medical examiner told Bob she’s already been to see him.”
“Okay, where does the identification stand?”
“Yessir, Mr. Jamison?” Annie stood in the doorway. She addressed Chip, but glowered at me.
Chip looked at her, then toward me. “Annie, please bring our guest a Killian’s and bring me another longneck. Also, Mr. Edwards might enjoy a glass of ice water with a twist of lemon. I know I would.”
Annie gave me an extra glare and walked away. I figured she liked the idea of the lemon. I’d get a glass of lemon juice—no dilution, no sweetener, but lots of seed.
Chip let out another guffaw. “Man, what did you do to her?”
I leaned back in the chair. “I have no clue. It’s her problem, not mine. What about the body?”
“Bob told me on the sly the medical examiner is sure it’s Peanut. But he won’t make an announcement until he has absolute proof. The dental stuff from Huntsville will fill in the blanks.”
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br /> “Next question. How did he die? Did Joseph kill him?” At that point I didn’t care. No matter what, a corpus delicti adorned the case.
Annie reappeared. She continued to flounce, but did it with more grace as she carried a tray with two beers, two glasses and a pitcher of ice water with a half lemon floating in it.
I scrunched into the corner of my chair as she served my Killian’s and a glass of the ice water. The flash in her eyes reminded me of the boys when I gave them a shot with a squirt gun for misbehaving.
Chip continued talking as if my life weren’t in danger. “Bob won’t tell me. He says he can’t say anything until he’s sure. I’m worried, Ace. If Bob won’t talk to me, it means he has doubts. He may think Joseph did it.”
For obvious reasons, I split my attention until Annie left—one quarter to Bob and three-quarters to her. The next two hours passed as we discussed the case, especially Chip’s morning phone call. So far, I had nothing that made much sense, including Annie’s attitude. She made three more trips into the Texas Room, and I swear the temperature dropped ten degrees each time.
I hooked up a tape recorder so Chip could record the next ransom call. I still questioned the second one.
At five, Annie announced dinner at six sharp. She also advised that Wanda would not dine with us—she had an appointment in Terrell. As Annie said it, she gave me a look that snapped the elastic in my skivvies. Wanda must be involved in Annie’s attitude toward me.
“You’ll be taking your meals here at the big house,” Chip told me. “If you want to dress for dinner, you’d better get a move on.”
I had no clue what he meant by dress for dinner. The most formal attire I’d seen was pressed jeans. But, while I had no intentions of dressing for dinner, I did want to check the boys.
* * * *
Chip encouraged me to take his golf cart to the fishing hut. I capped a small rise and a body of water stretched out in front of me. I don’t claim to be a judge of ponds and lakes, but this one was big enough that I hoped I’d never have to swim across it.
I saw a ranch-style bungalow along the shore near a dock with a sailboat tied to it. I wondered why Chip hadn’t mentioned it, but assumed one of his employees lived there.
I drove past, thinking the fishing hut must be farther down the shoreline. As my peripheral vision picked up a familiar face staring at me through a window, I saw a convertible parked in an open garage alongside the house. I slammed the brakes and stared. Could this be Chip’s fishing hut? That was my car right down to the extra-cost license plate, ACE-PI, and the face I’d seen looked like Sweeper, or maybe, Striker. They’re hard to tell apart at a distance.
I pulled the golf cart into the driveway and walked to the front door. I tried the knob, half expecting it not to turn. The door opened. The boys met me with a bounce in their step I hadn’t seen in a while, then turned and led me on a tour of the house. It was a two bedroom, two bath bungalow, furnished to the nines. The master bathroom had a round shower with about a six feet diameter enclosure. Everything carried the football with CTC brand.
The phone rang and when I answered, I heard, “Dinner in thirty minutes.” Annie’s tone chilled my ear.
I checked the boys’ food dishes and litter boxes, noticing Frank had not used the ones I’d brought. The food dishes were so fancy, I might have confused them with fine china, and the litter boxes—two of them—looked like little houses with pet doors for privacy. The food, the remains of which rested in their dishes, was not their normal fare, even when my cases paid well.
Sweeper walked to his dish, took a bite, then stared at me. I know my cats, and Sweeper’s action flaunted the quality of his dish. Striker ate judiciously, not accusing me of depriving him.
“Thank you, Striker. At least one of you is loyal.” I headed for the door, not anxious to incur more of Annie’s wrath by being late.
I made it to the big house with five minutes to spare, but gained no points from Annie for my promptness. Dinner was quiet, delicious, and filling. I groaned as I pushed my chair away from the table.
Annie came in at that moment which gave me an opportunity to mend a fence. “Annie, that was great. If the Southern Baptists find out how you cook, they might excommunicate you.”
She gave me my first smile of the day. “I always say a man who recognizes good food can’t be all bad. Maybe Wanda oughta give you another chance.” With that enigmatic statement, she collected dishes and left the room.
“Excuse me,” I said to Chip. “I’m getting to the bottom of this mystery.” I rose and followed Annie into the kitchen.
Frank stood at the sink, his hands in dishwater up to his elbows, his cowboy shirt rolled up to his biceps. The guy had arms like a tree trunk. I might have to re-think my opinion of him, but first, I had another situation to resolve.
“Annie, you’ve had me in the deep freeze all day. I’m just a poor country boy from Cisco, and I don’t have ESP. I’d sure appreciate it if you’d tell me what I did.”
She looked at me, then at Frank. As Frank scrubbed a plate, a fine piece of china with the CTC brand, he nodded. She said, “Miss Wanda said she stayed awake ’til three this morning waiting for you, and you didn’t have the courtesy to call. I don’t like people who disappoint her.”
Her comments floored me. Of all the information she could have parlayed, that was the most surprising. I’d slept with dreams of what could have been, horny as a bull penned up alongside a pasture filled with heifers in heat, while Wanda did the same thing. I slapped my palm against my forehead. “Oh, Annie, as has been quoted by so many philosophers, Man’s lack of knowledge of woman fills the reservoir of ignorance. Had I known, I would have tap, tap, tapped on her door.”
Annie smiled. “There may be hope for you, but I suggest you get in gear. You’ve got a lot of ground to recapture.”
Frank grinned and nodded. “Mr. Edwards, don’t try to understand. I’ve watched Wanda and Annie trap men for years. Get comfortable, fasten your seat belt, and enjoy the ride. When it’s over, you’ll be glad you were aboard.”
I mulled that over for a moment—a short one. “Annie, no matter what time Wanda comes home tonight, please wake her for breakfast.” I gave her my best smile. “To mangle a line from Gone with the Wind, tomorrow is another day.”
TEN
At breakfast, I was deep into a four-inch stack of blueberry pancakes dripping with melted butter and syrup when Wanda entered the Texas Room. Her appearance sent waves of lost opportunity up and down my spine. Today, she was dressed more conservatively, or so it appeared. Of course, if you had a body like Wanda’s, a nun’s habit might not be enough. She wore jeans, a pink button-up blouse, western boots, and a cowboy hat. The jeans molded themselves to her lower body, and the buttons on the blouse were under siege. I concentrated on her boots, noting they looked expensive.
I would have spoken, but it would have come out, “Goo blorn anda, ooh ook gate.” Rather than risk it, I swallowed the food I’d shoveled in before she entered, then took a healthy slug of coffee to finish the job. Concentrating on her hat while trying to keep my eyes off her button problem, I said, “Good morning, Wanda, you look great.”
She glared at me, then turned her attention to Chip. “Good morning, brother. You have a houseguest? Could this be the man who sweet-talked Annie? Does that prove the way to a woman’s heart is through her kitchen? Interesting approach, don’t you think?”
I looked at Chip for support, but he refused to meet my gaze. My ego deflated and took off for parts unknown. One thing could restore it, and Wanda’s attitude screamed, not.
She said sweetly to Chip. “I hope you had a good night’s rest.”
Chip’s grin was straight out of Alice in Wonderland. “Yes, dear sister, I slept well. However, do I detect a bit of tiredness around your eyes?”
“Yes,” she answered, without looking in my direction. “I got in late, and planned to sleep in. It was a great party after the movie.” She reached for a slice of t
oast. “Annie says you have something to discuss with me. What’s special about today?” Her voice oozed sweetness and cream, and a smile twitched at the corners of her mouth as she continued to ignore me. “If it can wait a few minutes, I’d prefer to tell you about last night. You should come with me sometime and hear the band. They’re great—out of Dallas. And the studs, I mean single men, wow. Of course there are unaccompanied women, too.”
“No, nothing special about today I can think of,” Chip said, a huge grin growing on his face. “Unless it’s the day Joseph comes home.”
“Yes, that would be nice. Weren’t you going to hire a competent private detective to help you?” She paused while she spread strawberry jam on her toast. “Is he arriving today? I’d like to meet him. Once he wraps up the case, maybe he’ll go dancing with me. If he’s good enough to rescue Joseph, I’ll bet he’s good enough to stay off my toes.” She reached across the table toward me for the bacon, putting her buttons in a severe case of distress. Her position left me wondering if the same engineers who worked on suspension bridges moonlighted designing bras. In my book, both were architectural marvels.
I stood, summoning my dignity. “I’m going to check on the boys. Call me when Sister Dearest has finished practicing being crude and obnoxious. I hope her PMS dissipates soon, and we can concentrate on Joseph.”
Chip burst into laughter. I hoped he didn’t have a mouthful of bacon when the guffaws stuck him. My choices were to leave, or prepare to execute the Heimlich maneuver. The idea of walking out won. I threw my napkin into my chair, cursing the fact that half my pancakes and four slices of bacon lay on my plate.
I stormed from the Texas Room. As I stomped along the hallway, I heard, “Ace, no, don’t…” but I ignored it and kept walking. When I reached the front door, I heard boots running behind me, but I pushed on with no hesitation. I went through the doorway and slammed the door behind me as Wanda said, “I’m sorry, Ace…”
